I’m delighted to have a copy of Vegan Recipes for New Age Men by Liz Treacher on my TBR because I’ve heard such good things about it from fellow bloggers. My enormous thanks to Liz for sending me a copy and for allowing me to share an extract from Vegan Recipes for New Age Men with you today.

Liz previously featured on Linda’s Book Bag when we stayed in together here to chat about another of her books, The Wrong Envelope.

Vegan Recipes for New Age Men was published on 12th September 2023 and is available for purchase here.

Vegan Recipes for New Age Men

A fast-paced romcom about finding yourself.

Lauren really, really needs a break. There’s just one problem: a bearded bohemian is squatting in her Highland cottage by the sea, performing reiki on her plants and cluttering the fridge with strange ingredients. What on earth is aquafaba, anyway?

When her busybody granny turns up to crash her much-needed holiday, along with Lauren’s boyfriend Patrick – who really is perfect for her, by the way – things get even worse.

As her life begins to unravel, Lauren is forced to confront the ghosts lurking under the surface of her idyllic Scottish retreat. But with a skilled hand in the kitchen and a heartfelt recipe or two, she might discover that things are not always as they seem. And that maybe – just maybe – chickpeas aren’t so bad after all.

An Extract from Vegan Recipes for New Age Men

Lauren has arrived at her Highland holiday cottage to find Nash, a vegan chef, squatting there. As if that isn’t bad enough, Lauren’s Granny is on her way.

The next day dawns bright and sunny. Lauren gets up early, determined to squeeze in a long walk before her grandmother arrives. When Lauren goes into the kitchen, Nash is sitting outside on the decking. The cooker is gleaming and the worktops smell suspiciously clean.
‘Not bad,’ she calls, through the open French windows.
Nash looks round. ‘Why only not bad?’ he asks.
‘You left a teabag in the sink.’
‘Teabags are compostable, but you don’t have a compost.’
‘Surely you could have built one, Nash? After all, you’ve had plenty of time.’
‘There’s some scones in the tin,’ Nash replies, ignoring her dig.
‘No, thanks.’ Lauren silently orders her stomach not to grumble, fills the kettle and goes outside.
It’s one of those summer mornings that could have been lifted straight from a fairytale. Birds are flying in large arcs around the house. Swallows or house martins, Lauren can never tell the difference, swoop low over her head and then high into the blue sky above.
The tide is out, revealing a sandbank in the shape of a crescent, as if a slice of moon has fallen into the loch. On the sandbank, seals like oversized commas bask in the sun. Their moans and bellows are carried inland by the southerly wind.
‘What a noise,’ observes Nash. ‘It’s amazing here,’ he adds.
‘I’m going out for a walk,’ Lauren says.
‘Go, go!’ Nash replies, giving her an annoying sort of blessing.
The beach seems to have been taken over by birds. Arctic terns run past, leaving tiny footprints in the sand. Eider ducks fly along the shoreline, their long wings like floppy ears. They land on the loch and start making cooing calls, oohing and aahing like gossiping ladies.
Lauren spots two curlews picking their way across the shingly sand. They are instantly recognisable with their long, downward-curving bills, but she sees fewer and fewer of them these days.
She walks past the abandoned jetty where a pair of oystercatchers are nesting. They are furious with her and shriek their disapproval until she’s out of sight.
To avoid disturbing the oystercatchers again, Lauren cuts across the dunes and does a long loop home. Marram grasses swish against her legs and she has to watch her step over the uneven, boggy ground. Small Blue butterflies race ahead. Yellow Rockrose flowers light the way. In the distance, a Highland cow calls to its calf.
When Lauren gets back from her walk, the moss-covered gate is open, creaking uneasily on its hinges, and a car has driven in. The boot of the car yawns wide and the front door swings to and fro in the wind. From inside Lauren can hear two voices: one low and mumbling, the other high and insistent.
Lauren steels herself to go through the front door, but at the last moment she chickens out and creeps around the back.
Granny is standing beside the open French windows. Her suitcase, a pre-war leather one, is parked beside her. Nash has backed himself into a corner between the sink and the cooker.
‘Nash?’ Granny is shaking her head as if to imply that no one would have such a ridiculous name. ‘Nash who?’
Nash seems unsure what his second name is.
‘What’s your real name?’ Granny asks.
Nash opens his mouth, closes it again, bows his head and mutters: ‘Clifford Adderman.’
‘In that case, I shall call you Clifford,’ Granny announces. ‘Which room am I in?’
‘I’ll show you,’ says Nash. He picks up the suitcase and hobbles with it along the corridor. Granny follows.
          Clifford Adderman. Lauren adds this new information to what she already knows. Nash is, she decides, not a real person at all. He is a shimmering hologram that changes from one moment to another. First a tenant, then a squatter; first a hippy, then a baker. Initially bearded; subsequently beardless. Now even his name has changed.
A noise in the kitchen. Nash and Granny are back.
‘Would you like a scone with your tea?’ Nash is asking.
‘I would. And I would like it on the veranda. I know you young people call it the decking, but it used to be the veranda.’ Granny steps outside. ‘Lauren! There you are!’ Her eyes are dancing with life. ‘You must be livid this Clifford chap has invaded your holiday,’ she says. ‘And the one person you really want isn’t here.’ Granny sits down and gazes out over the view. ‘Nice teeth, though.’
‘Tea’s on its way!’ calls Nash.
It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly Granny starts approving of the squatter. Probably somewhere between the second and third scone. No obvious outward sign, except her hand starts to sway slightly as it approaches the proffered plate.
‘I probably shouldn’t,’ Granny says coyly.
‘They won’t keep till tomorrow,’ says Nash.
‘Well… if you’re sure, Clifford,’ smiles Granny, and her hand sways again, as if in ecstasy.
Lauren is relieved that Granny seems to be taking to Nash, but also bemused. She orbits carefully around them.
‘Do you bake?’ Nash asks.
Granny’s smile becomes more flirtatious. ‘Oh no! I mean, not really. Not anymore.’
‘So you used to?’
‘Well, yes. But nothing exotic.’
‘You can’t beat good old-fashioned British baking,’ Nash smiles. If buttering up grannies was a gameshow, Nash would win hundreds of prizes.
‘Clifford’s vegan,’ Lauren says mischievously.
Nash’s head whizzes round and he gives Lauren a look. Probably because she’s called him Clifford, but maybe also because she’s landed him in it.
‘Ve… Gun?’ Granny looks confused.
‘I don’t eat animals or their products,’ explains her baker.
Granny chews thoughtfully. ‘Tastes alright,’ she says. Another flirtatious smile: ‘What’s for supper?’

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I don’t know about you, but I need to find out more!

About Liz Treacher

Liz is a writer and creative writing tutor. She lives in the Scottish Highlands by the sea.

Liz was drawn to writing after she discovered a tiny suitcase belonging to her grandmother. It was tied up with gingham ribbon and full of letters sent by two soldiers on their way to the First World War. The cheerful tone of the soldiers and the way their letters seemed to conceal more than they revealed inspired Liz’s first novel, The Wrong Envelope. She has since written a sequel, The Wrong Direction and a darker, contemporary novel, The Unravelling. Her latest novel, Vegan Recipes for New Age Men is a romantic comedy about a precise proofreader and a bearded bohemian.

To find out more, visit Liz’s website, follow her on Twitter @liztreacher or find Liz on Instagram and Facebook.